The Scent of Jasmine
by Josephine Martin
Summary: Written for Eurydice's William Ficathon. Set between Buffy seasons 5 and 6. What really happened while Buffy was dead?


**The Scent of Jasmine**

**_Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing the characters. The story has no commercial purpose_**.

You know sometimes you struggle with a problem, trying for ages to wrestle it into submission, and then the solution comes to you in a flash of inspiration. Well, ok, often those flashes of inspiration happen in the middle of the night and in the morning they make no sense at all, but sometimes it works.

So, that's how it was. I had Giles and the others telling me that if the portal opened, then the only way to close it was to kill Dawn, and then there was my determination that that was one thing which wouldn't happen. It seemed like stalemate, but then a whole lot of things clicked together, and the answer was obvious. Dawn didn't have to die. I could die instead. It was simple and it was the only solution that answered both requirements. Death was my gift. By dying, I could save all of them, and most importantly, I could save Dawn.

So I jumped. And I died. I felt it happen, and I really had no regrets. The alternative was just too awful to contemplate.

Darkness overtook me for a while, and then I was in a place where everything was warm and comfortable. I had this feeling that everything was as it should be, and that I was finished. I was happy. Things took on a … routine then. Time didn't pass as it does on Earth, but I felt that it had elapsed anyway. But then something changed. That feeling of completion I've had since I got here has been replaced by the nagging sense of something that's half forgotten but necessary. The compulsion seems to make a doorway appear in the space I've been in, and I walk through it into a long hallway. I start to make my way along it, past doors, all identical, until I come to one which is open. I move inside, and it seems I'm in a large room.

I stand close to the doorway, looking around for a moment. High ceilings with ornate cornices give way to walls in a deep wine colour. Below, a gold painted rail runs around the room, and hanging from it there are paintings – portraits and landscapes – each in a gilded frame. There are rugs on the floor, patterned in wine and gold. There are chairs scattered around the room, all with polished wooden legs and plush upholstery and low tables strategically placed among them. On the far side of the room is a large window, and as my eyes are drawn towards the light from it, I spot him.

He seems to be a small man, bent over an old desk, scribbling away on some paper with an old-fashioned pen. The light catches in sandy-coloured hair which falls in curls to his collar. He's dressed in clothes which seem to match the room - quaint and fussy looking. I can just imagine Giles' great however-many grandfather dressing like that.

He spots me then, looking up with an expression of surprise. That soon melts to one of genuine pleasure, and he gets up from his chair and walks towards me.

"Welcome, welcome," he says, holding out a hand and shaking mine warmly. "I don't get many visitors here. Come in and sit down."

He takes off his glasses as he looks at me, and the instant he does, a thrill of recognition goes through me. I recognise him but I can't work out why. I follow him over towards his writing desk. Close by, there are two large arm chairs, and he gestures for me to sit in one of them then waits for me to do so before sitting in the other.

I'm confused, but he doesn't seem to notice. "Can I get you anything? I mean, I know we can't really eat or anything, but the habits of a lifetime, you know? I do like to at least pretend that I'm having my afternoon tea."

"Tea'd be lovely," I answer, listening carefully to his voice. English, and I'd guess even more cultured than Giles, or at least, more old-fashioned. That should cut down the possibilities if I do recognise him. I go through the list of English people I know. There's Giles, and Wesley, and the other Watchers - Quentin Travers and the rest. Then, there's Ethan Rayne, and Drusilla and … Spike.

And, of course, as soon as I think the name, I know why I recognise him. It's Spike. Or at least, looking at the period setting, I'd guess it's William.

I look at the table in front of us, and now there's a polished silver tray with a teapot and two delicate cups and saucers. There's a small jug with milk, and a matching bowl filled with sugar. William reaches over and, with the milk jug hovering over one of the cups asks me, "Milk?"

"Yes, please," I answer, as my mind struggles to take it all in.

"Sugar?" he asks next, and I tell him "No."

He pours tea into both cups, then hands one to me before stirring the other.

He takes a sip, and then turns to me again. "So, let me introduce myself," he offers. "My name is William Spencer. And you are?"

"Buffy. Buffy Summers."

"An unusual name, but then I suspect things have changed a great deal. I think you are more recently arrived here than I am."

"Changed?" I answer. "I suppose they have."

"Well, of course, in my day, for us to be sitting together like this, unchaperoned, well, it would have been most improper. Here though, everything's different."

He seems to study me for a moment, before continuing. "So, you must be here for a reason. If you tell me what it is, then perhaps I'll be able to help you. I've had few visitors; I'm more likely to visit others – it's surprising how you know that someone interesting has arrived. Mainly, I visit writers – I love listening to works that hadn't been written when I was alive. But never mind about me. How can I help you?"

"The truth is, Sp … William. I don't know. I was drawn here, and I don't mean that I came against my will. It was more that I knew that I needed to come, even if I didn't know where here was. And that makes no sense at all."

"No, I think I understand. But if you don't know why you're here, then I'm not sure how I can help."

It occurs to me that this man is, on the surface at least, so unlike Spike that the similarities I can see are jarring. Physically, there's little doubt. Of course, the hair's not platinum blonde, and it's curly and long. He seems … smaller than Spike too, but I assume that's a result of the clothes and, well, his general demeanour. Where Spike always, or at least almost always, tried to stand out in a crowd, William seems in danger of being camouflaged while he's the only other person in the room. If nothing else, I'm curious to find out more about this man - the one who told me he'd 'always been bad'.

"I'd like to know more about you," I offer, taking the opportunity while it's there.

"Well, I'm not sure there's so much to know. I'm, er, no, really, I'm not any longer. I was a writer. Poems, mainly. I was fortunate enough not to have to toil in some other way as I had money enough to live comfortably. I lived in London, wrote my poems, had few friends and many acquaintances, and died young. Really, my life was of little note."

"Do you know how you died?" I ask. I remember the details of my death, so why shouldn't he?

"I remember what happened, of course. But as to understanding it? I needed help with that."

His expression changes then, suddenly becoming worried. "Tell me, is that why you're here? Do you know about … him?"

"Him?"

"Him. The … thing that took over my body."

"Yes."

"Did he …?"

The expression on his face is stricken, and I'm quick to reassure him.

"No, no. It's just that you - the other you - hurt me a few times, but I hurt him too."

"So you knew him. But he didn't kill you?"

"No, he didn't. In fact, he was there when I died, and I believe he would have done anything to save me if he could."

"Really? You mean that?"

"Really. So, you know about Spike then?"

"Spike? Yes. But that name is rather more recent, isn't it? The name I first heard was 'William the Bloody'. Rather ironical really that he should be known by that name. It's what some called me."

"You? I can't believe …"

"Oh, it was a means to ridicule me. They called me 'William the Bloody Awful Poet'. He took the first bit and used it to try to add to his dastardly reputation. To hear him talk, I understand, it's as if he was always bad. But I wasn't. At least, I tried not to be."

"How did you find out about him?"

"Well, yes. I had this … yes, compulsion is a good word. I had a compulsion to visit someone. Elizabeth Drusilla Brierly. She is an odd woman. I'm not even sure she's entirely sane. Her surroundings are those of a nun's cell, bare and hard. I asked her why she wished for such surroundings, and she told me they were the ones that gave her greatest comfort, as these do for me. It's as close as I remember to my favourite room in my home. Even the scent - it was my mother's favourite - jasmine."

His expression glazes for a second, and then I'm aware of the flowery fragrance though I hadn't been before.

"And what did she tell you?" I feel almost guilty for bringing him back to a subject that obviously causes him some pain, but I can't not ask.

"She explained my death. It was her, or what is left of her on Earth, who killed me. I recognised her, of course. She explained the horror of what she did to me, and how my body still walks the earth spreading death in its wake as hers does. She feels so guilty about it that she compels those who her other self has killed to visit her. Sometimes I think that perhaps I should do the same, but then, well, maybe it's better not to. It's a strange business, isn't it? That birth and death should be so tied - the death of a man and the birth of a monster."

He looks off into the distance, then speaks again, but I know he's not really talking to me this time.

"_I have seen birth and death,_

_But had thought them different; this Birth was _

_Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death."_

"What?" I ask.

He shakes his head slightly, as if trying to return from wherever his thoughts had taken him.

"It's from a poem I heard some time ago. I heard that a famous writer had arrived, and I went to plague him as I am wont to do."

I get the feeling I'm going to lose him again if I don't speak, so I do.

"You, er, Spike hasn't killed for a while now. Not humans, at any rate."

"Not killing? But how? I thought he had to kill to live."

"He lives on animal blood which he gets from the butcher's. Of course, sometimes he steals it, so he's not completely reformed, but it's an improvement."

"And how did he come to be there when you died?"

Ah, he's turned the tables on me. From talking about his life, now we're talking about mine.

"William, do you know what a Slayer is?"

His face drops at the question, and he mumbles, "Yes. I've had two of them visit me."

I reach over and put my hand under his chin, lifting it so I can see into his eyes. "William, there's no guilt involved here. You aren't guilty of Spike's crimes and anyway, he didn't kill me. If Drusilla feels guilt, then you're right, she's probably not altogether sane. The vampire version certainly isn't."

He smiles shyly at me and nods.

"Logic agrees with you, but my conscience does not. Still, to answer your question again, I know what Slayers are. Were you one?"

"Yes. I was the Slayer."

"How did it come that Spike would try to save your life?"

"The truth is, I don't understand it, but I'll explain the circumstances if you wish."

He looks at me expectantly, so I take that as an answer.

"A couple of years ago, the American military had this group of demon hunters. And despite the fact that that sounds like a good thing, it wasn't. They got carried away, good and evil got kind of confused, and in the end, the whole project was cancelled. But, while they were working, they were able to make a chip."

"A chip? A piece of fried potato, or do you mean a small piece of wood?"

"A chip. It's a sort of machine, but made very small. It was so small, they fitted it inside his brain. This machine, well, whenever he hurt a human, it hurt him - zapped his brain."

"Very ingenious, but surely that wasn't enough to change his way of life completely?"

"No, maybe it wasn't, but it caused him some serious problems. He couldn't feed, and he couldn't fight. He came to us - my friends and me - asking for help. At first, we didn't trust him at all, and we kept him chained up in a bath tub, but he seemed to have information we could use, so we got him blood and gave him somewhere to stay. And then, when the demon hunters were gone, there didn't seem to be a reason to dust him because he couldn't hurt anyone. And once he found he could fight other demons without the chip firing, he helped us a bit."

"What you say implies that he was dependent on you. Is this why he tried to save you?"

I have to think about that. Right before I died, I would've been sure that was part of it. Now, I can't just give that answer because I know there's been more to it than that.

"Some time ago, he claimed that he fell in love with me."

"You sound like you don't believe it."

"I don't … I didn't. I don't know. He … had a funny way of showing me he loved me. I mean, he chained me up and offered to stake Drusilla for me. But … it was sort of scary. More like he was obsessed with me. And … without souls, vampires can't love, can they?"

"Apart from Drusilla, I've never met one, so I can't really have much of an opinion."

"She said they could."

"Who?"

"Drusilla. She said vampires could love quite well, but not wisely or some such."

"So he said he loved you, and then he tried to save you?"

"Towards the end, there was this Hellgod, and she wanted my sister. Long story, but she was a mystical key made into human form and sent to me for my protection. The Hellgod wanted her key back, and took my sister. Spike … he tried his best to save her, to stop … but he failed. I failed. Glory used the key to open the portal, and all the dimensions were leaking together, and the only way to close the portal was to kill Dawn. And then I realised it would work if I died too, so I did. He did what he could; I know he did. He went to that last confrontation convinced he wouldn't come back and he was good with that, you know? He said I treated him like a man."

Memories are flooding back of that time - the gratitude on his face when I invited him inside. His expression so like the one on the man in front of me. For the first time I start to consider the possibility that Spike did love me. And even if I don't call it love, there was something. He was willing to die for me and for Dawn. I know that.

"He survived?"

"I think so."

"So, without the restraint that your presence provided, I expect he has returned to his old life. Even hampered with this machine, I'm sure he could find some way to revert to his old ways."

"Probably," I agree.

"I don't suppose we'll ever know."

I pick up my teacup, pleased to note that despite the elapsed time, its contents are still hot. A distinct advantage of an existence where tea is conjured up by thought.

The thunder crack jolts both of us. I jump, but William leaves his chair completely.

"Thunder?" he exclaims.

"Sounds like it," I agree. "I didn't think we had weather here."

"We don't - at least, not in all the time I've been here."

And then I hear it. Willow's voice. Well, almost Willow's voice. It sounds harder though, strident, like she's demanding something but I can't quite make out the words. I listen harder, and at last, I hear one phrase repeated, 'Let her cross over!' and I realise with a jolt what she's trying to do.

"William," I say, drawing his attention back from the window which he's been watching as if waiting to see the rain start to fall. "I think someone, one of my friends, is trying to take me back."

"Back from here? Surely that's not possible?"

"I've lived twice already, so I suppose … "

"It's a pity," he says. "I had hoped to get to know you better. I believe that if there's anyone who could be responsible for inspiring love in a vampire, it would be you."

I smile at the compliment, but by the look on his face, it wasn't intended as such, but was rather his earnest belief. I could say 'thank you,' I suppose, but then I think of something better. I remember kissing Spike. I mean, it was all spell-induced and so on, but I remember it. I can't help but wonder if kissing William will be the same, and so I stand and move towards him. I put my two hands on his shoulders, and lift myself up a little by standing on my toes. Slowly, I move my lips towards his, ignoring the initial surprise in his eyes, and smiling as I see them flutter closed. I kiss him softly, and then move away again, trying to gauge his reaction. He sighs softly, then opens his eyes again, watching me, and then he starts to move towards me. The second kiss is longer, more searching than the first, and it's promising much more than a mere kiss, when I feel cold behind me. There's something there, or rather, it feels like a vacuum, and I'm being dragged into that cold. I see William standing there, his arms held out as if trying to keep me with him, but nothing could resist the pull as I'm yanked out of heaven.

As I move, his face seems to fade, not just from my view, but also from my memory. It's like trying to remember a dream. At first, there's something you can latch onto, and then, there's just the knowledge that you could remember something a moment ago, and then there's just the inexplicable scent of jasmine.

It's dark, and I gasp as I open my eyes to see the white cloth above me, and I realise to my horror that I'm staring at the lining of my coffin.

**The End.**

_The line of poetry is from The Journey of the Magi by TS Eliot._

_The requirements of the fic were: _

_Jasmine, William writing, a quote from a poem by TS Eliot._

_One restriction - William should not be vamped at the end._

_Somewhere beteen fluffy and angsty, but with a supernatural feel._


End file.
